


One.

by Shamu



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: F/M, take care, the incest is depicted as consensual and explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 06:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13428399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamu/pseuds/Shamu
Summary: Can two people ever become one?





	One.

**Author's Note:**

> Best read after [ Everything. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084827)
> 
> Folklore is all real and I tried to use only good sources, but I am no expert so please take everything with a grain of salt. Some stories are shorted for the sake of brevity, but no facts are altered. I do not necessarily condone everything they discuss. 
> 
> Written as a birthday fic for a very good friend of mine. Love you, Spagiyo.

“In the beginning,” she said, her voice hoarse but powerful, “There was nothing but a chaotic, primeval ocean.”

“An endless darkness,” he said, “Shapeless. Silent. Surreal.”

“And then there was light,” she said, sitting up, her fingers waving, flashes of red. “Particles undulating in the endless sea.”

He could have said, ‘And then hatched an egg, and all the universe was born,’ as the Ancient Greeks would. He could have said, ‘And God said, ‘let there be a vault between the waters to separate the water from water,’' as the Christians would. He could have said, ‘And then the self spoke and said ‘it is I’’ and thus all things became divided and the great oneness was forever separate,’ as the Hindus would. All start, a darkness, a light - and all end with the birth of everything.

And all were fascinating, but this was his favourite.

“And the particles rose, and thus the universe was full of sound,” he said. “Up, and up, they rose - light faster than all the rest. Until the light particles formed a mass, and from this, came yang, came Heaven.” 

“And those that did not rise… darker, slower, denser - this became yin, the Earth.” 

“And then.”

“And then.”

“From the light, there emerged Seven Generations of Gods.”

The names flowed from them like a poem, their voices a calm melody flowing between them.

“Kuni-no-tokotachi-no-kami.”

“Toyo-kumo-no-no-kami.”

“U-hiji-ni and Su-hiji-ni.”

“Tsunu-guhi and Iku-guhi.”

“Ō-to-no-ji and Ō-to-no-be.”

“Omo-daru and Aya-kashiko-ne.”

“And finally,” she said, her lips curling into a smile.

“Finally, we were born. Brother and sister, Izanagi…”

“And Izanami,” she knitted her fingers together, squeezing out the softest of laughs. Then she stood, the primordial ocean spewing out around her. Each step was a ripple in the darkness, her loose silks trailing mud. Her hair blended into that endless ocean, only the paleness of her skin, the gold of her eyes, the red jewels of her lips and fingertips made any punctuation.

She lifted her eyes to him, and took his hand.

“And together,” he said, “They walked through the darkness, across the floating bridge in Heaven.” He squeezed her hand, her warmth the only warmth in all the universe.

“And then…” She tilted her head, looking down at the tatami floor. “She began to wonder, what was beneath the ocean. What was beneath all that darkness?”

“And thus, he began to wonder too.” Keeping a hold of her hand, he used his free one to mime picking up a spear. “And with the thrust of the Divine Spear,” he thrust into the floor, the tatami folding away into an abyss. And from it, he pulled and pulled and “out from the brine, Onogoro, dripped free. An island made solid.”

“The only solid thing in the universe,” she remarked, gazing wondrously at the floor. “The most beautiful thing in the universe.” And, with an exaggerated step, she pulled on his hand, “Well. Shall we?”

And together, Izanagi and Izanami descended to the island. They circled round one another, marvelling in their creation, long fingers never unbound from one another.

“And then…” they slowed, the darkness still around them - the light of heaven, the floating bridge, their plain, simple island the only things they had ever known. “And then.”

She squeezed his hand, and drew herself close, tilting her head up towards his.

“They married.”

And with the softest of movements, she drew her lips to his and kissed him.

Suddenly, the darkness dissipated, the heavens crackled and the floating bridge collapsed. Their island was meaningless, their universe swelled and burst and they were no longer Izanagi and Izanami.

They’d played this tale a thousand times, but she had never kissed him before.

He had never been this aware of her body, the heat of her hand, the soft circle of her mouth and and and, his face is the most furiously red its ever been. She jumped away from him, that redness spread quicker than a disease, her shoulders shaking. He instinctively covered his mouth, an awkward cavern between them growing larger and larger until…. he laughs.

Until they’re both laughing.

It’s utterly ridiculous.

But, “Izanagi and Izanami became aware of one another’s sexuality, and produced the eight islands of Japan,” she rushed through it. “The end.”

Both of them know that this was not the end, but she turned away, giggling nervously. “I think…”

He answered for her, “I think we should, uh. Part ways, for now. I have homework to do, and…”

“Yes. That would be… Yes. Go do your homework. I’m ashamed of you for choosing play over work,” she scolds, but there’s no strength to her voice. She still refuses to look at him - her hair a mess.   

He nods, turning and hurrying out of her room.

—

It takes a week, but he asked her if they can play the Japanese creation myth again. And again. And again. And again. She kissed him each time.

—

The story changed.

“The pleasure distracts in the early Edo period spawned a culture known as Ukiyo, the floating world.” She waved her fingers over three woodblock prints, Courtesans dressed in outrageous silks, Kabuki actors indulging Samurai in the most hedonistic of desires, history and folklore revisited and shaped into erotica.

She was dressed as an Oiran, the most ostentatious of all the things the floating world ever produced. 

More accurately, she was meant to be a Tayū. In her hair, she wore tortoise-shell and coral hair ornaments - 6 pieces that jutted like the lines of a halo. Her body was wreathed in silks, as though she had been cut open and bled lush layers of kimonos, fine patterns drenched in symbolism. When she walked, she did so in a deliberate, figure-of-eight motion - and he imagined her child attendants following, giggling, their innocence as marvellous as her indecency.

And then she sat across from him, but did not look at him.

This, as were all things concerning the floating world, was ritualistic. He was a wealthy patron of some kind or another - names long forgotten to the mists of time. But his own clothes could not match hers - so brilliantly did she shine in them, her radiance more blinding than (what would have been) lead-based paint she’d smeared on her face. Her eyebrows were accentuated with the blackest kohl, her lips the finest red. She would have been one of the only women in Japan who could read and write, sing, play games and instruments - a vivaciousness that rivalled all, and yet she would show none of it to him.

Therein lay the sensuality.

He watched her.

She stared at the floor, quite bored.

After all, though she was a courtesan, it was his job to entertain her. Normally, this would involve the spending of money, the use of his wits to impress on her that his intellect was worthy, the playfulness and the gentleness of how he approached her attendants… but he knew that none of these things were what she was interested in. She had all the gifts she could ever desire, intellect that soared beyond his own, a gentleness and a playfulness that would run rings around him.

But he knew what she wanted.

“In the beginning, there was Pangu. He was a giant, fast asleep in the egg of chaos. For an eternal stretch of time, nothing happened. Time passed. Chaos festered. He slept. And then!” He lifted his hands dramatically, hoping to catch her attention. She didn’t so much as spare him a glance. “And then! He awoke! And with his awakening, he divided the heaven and the earth. This was to be his only action - for after that great sundering, his own body was divided and he died. His blood poured forth as rivers, his bones twisted and jutted from the earth as mountains, his breath exhaled into all the living creatures, all things that have ever lived, all things that would ever live.”

Her shoulders shuffled, and he sat upright, staring at her. But she simply yawned, opening her mouth wide enough to reveal that her teeth had been stained black. He relaxed.

“And out of those living things came Hua Hsu. Hua Hsu gave birth to a brother and a sister, Fuxi and Nüwa - creatures with the bodies of snakes and the face of man. Fuxi and Nüwa walked the darkness of the earth - and thought, there should be light. And so, they set up two separate piles of fire. Eventually, with time, the fires became one.”

She lay down, looking at her nails.

“And so, as they watched the flickering of the flames, those two beasts perfectly merged, the smell of their union thick in the air - they decided to become one themselves. And from that union, they thought, they should not be alone. And so, together, they made clay dolls. They breathed into these dolls their love, and from thus, came humanity.”

He watched her, traced the lines of her body through the silks, imagined her face revealing anything but boredom. After all, if he did not impress her, she could always refuse to see him again. A shop workers yearly salary, not even for a glance.

“So… we can see a great number of similarities with the Japanese creation myth. Isn’t that fascinating? That from one brother, one sister, came everything?”

She suddenly arose, his heart catching in his throat. He shuffled uneasily.

She walked out of the room, leaving only the smell of her perfume hanging in the air. 

—

Later that night, she slipped into his room. Sitting on the edge of his futon, they stayed up all night whispering about the cultural implications of some TV show or another.

—

The next day, he slipped into her room - and she was waiting for him. The same white face paint, the mass of silks still threatening to swallow her, her hair shaped like two fans.

This time, when he went to kneel - she shook her head. Lifting a hand, his sleeve covering his mouth, her dared move closer. She shook her head again. Closer. Another shake of her head. Closer still, until he could see the delicate flare of red around her eyes, the stitch work in her kimonos, the tiny kanji engraved in her hair ornaments. She nodded, but looked away.

Again, she could not eat, or drink, or revel in his riches - he had only the poor man’s gift. But, if she had invited him again - he must have satisfied her. This thought alone made his face darken, but he quickly covered it with a cough, shifting in his place.

“Incest…” he began, his throat tightening, “Has often been associated with magics. In European Alchemy, the union of the male and female is often regarded as a sexual one. Distilled, one imagines a most fervent love between the male and the female embracing each other so closely that they can no longer be torn asunder - their bonds so unbreakable that they can be described as a ‘one’. The union of opposites, the returning to the original, chaotic state in which all things were once whole. Over and over, throughout all of Alchemy - texts personify the silver and the gold, the sun and the moon, the water and the fire; as brother and sister.”

He coughed, she remained unmoving.

“In one text, a brother and sister are imprisoned for the crime of incest. Left alone in this cell, the two unite, then die - their bodies putrefying in the sealed chamber. And then, after an interval, they arise as King and Queen, their resurrection accompanied by riches, renewal, the restoration of youth, and a panacea for all diseases.”

She blinked, and he could see the dust of her face-paint dappled on her impossibly black eyelashes.

“A-and, in…” He calmed himself. “And in most Polynesian societies - particularly Hawaii, incestuous relationships among the royalty were regarded with the highest respect. If a royal union bore fruit, the child would bear the greatest status - equal to that of the gods. He would be divine. The most perfect and revered union was that of a full brother and sister of the highest rank.”

“This… kind of union was exclusive to the ruling classes. Commoners were forbidden for fear that they would begin to produce children with mana equivalent to that of the aforementioned god children.”

She lifted her head, then. Straightening her back, she brought herself up and stood at her full length. She did not look at him.

“And…”

She stopped.

“And… so. Scholars have theorised that…. the union between brother and sister is repeatedly used to represent the ideal of completeness. Both beings are identical, for they belong to the same generation and are issued from the same womb. Reunited, differing only by… by complementary sex differences, they form a perfect and single entity.”

He waited, holding his breath.

She left.

— 

Later that night, she invited him to join her in the bath. He protested, face flushed - but she had laughed and said, “We’re siblings, is it so unusual?”

Her gaze was anything but familial.

They didn’t touch, but her eyes never left his skin. He saw her for what she was - slender, overly-so, with ribs that showed like bone when she breathed. Her breasts were slightly misshapen, misaligned, highlighted by their small size. Her skin was covered in marks and bruises, her veins flush, her body scared with surgery lines. And yet. And yet.

She was incredible. Beautiful. Divine.

And when she  _ laughed,  _ chattering away about some such story or article, pouring water over her head - when she  _ laughed,  _ it was like it put a rosy glow over her entire self. She didn’t look like a fragile bird, coiled helplessly in that hospital bed. She looked like the most vibrant, most effervescent of all things - her lungs giving forth that soft song. Uplifting her instead of betraying her.

She became more than herself, than this bath, than this house. It was like everything spilled forth from her - and as much as he wanted to, so, so  _ ached  _ to, he didn’t  _ need  _ to touch her. Enveloped in her laugh, there was nothing else. 

—

The next day, she sat, and waited, and once again came dressed as a Tayū.

This time, she spoke.

“You have done well, thus far. However, I am still not convinced.”

Being watched by her was suddenly so much more intense. Somehow, having her eyes on him made her face look all that more softer, her lips all the more redder. She was so much more alive, and all that living energy felt ready to devour him whole.

Before her, lay three different cups, each filled with sake. Nine sips. That’s what it takes.

She took the first sip, and he followed.

She took the second sip, and he followed.

She took the third, and then, as he followed, she spoke again.

“Tell me just one more.”

She took another sip, his focus entirely on the red line that brushed the edge of the cup with such delicacy.

“But only one.” 

He swallowed.

“Then I shall tell you the story of Hon Vong Phu.”

She tilted her head, humming to herself.

“I have not heard of such a name.”

“It is a famous Vietnamese story, one that has birthed many a play, poem and piece of art.”

She laughed, and said, “I see. Well, won’t you enlighten me? Please. I must be truly suffering in the depths of my ignorance.”

“Hmm…” He hummed, watching her take another sip. The sting of the sake helped soften his voice, the nerves in his stomach slowly unwinding.

“Once, there was a poor family in a small village.” Smoke filled the air, the sounds of domestic life polluting the room, small children playing in the thick humidity. “Every day, the parents left their two children at home whilst they went out into the fields to perform backbreaking work. They told their son that he should take care of his sister, and keep her out of harm’s way.”

She guffawed at this, “Of course, I’m sure she could not fend for herself. The world was so harsh then, no?”

He frowned, but she lifted a cup to his lips, making him take a sip.

“Well, at any rate, I’m sure you will be glad to know that the boy was not infallible. Perhaps she would have been better off, fending for herself.”

Her eyes smiled, and she took her own sip.

“While peeling sugar-cane, the knife slipped from his hands and stabbed into his sister’s neck.” He reached up behind his back, touching the nape of his neck. “And, fearing that he had killed her and would face harsh punishment for it - he ran away.”

She nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“So… Many years passed, and by coincidence, they met again. They fell in love. They married. All the while, they had no idea that they were siblings. Together, they birthed a son.”

“Ah, and was he infused with the highest mana? The origin of all humanity? The product of a perfect and single entity?” She laughed, swirling the cup, before taking another sip.

“No.”

He played with the ends of his hair, thinking. She pressed the cup back up at his lips again, insisting he keep pace with her.

Dropping his hair, he finished his sip - putting the cup firmly back down.

“One, beautiful morning - he saw his wife combing her beautiful black hair. The sunlight played ripples over it, and, entranced by her beauty… he could not help but watch. But then, as she pulled her hair forwards, the comb running through it - he saw it. The scar.”

“All at once, he began to feel a deep sense of dread. Guilt that he hadn’t thought about in all his years of happiness with her.” 

She frowned.

“And he runs away. Like he always does. Like he always has.”

She stiffened.

“His wife, left in ignorance, waits for his return. Every evening, she took her son in her arms and climbed the highest mountain, waiting for her husband’s return. For years, decades, she made the same gesture. Time ebbed away from her, but still she climbed that mountain. Until…”

They both shared a glance, both shared a sip.

“One beautiful day… she reached the top of the mountain - the clouds parted before her, beams of sunlight glistening in her eyes. Exhausted, she looked out over the horizon, and took her final breath. Frozen forever, stagnant in time, she turned to stone and became immobile in her eternal wait.”

She hesitated, paused.

“So, this is the final story you choose to give me?”

She takes a cup, and he takes his.

Nine sips. That’s what it takes.

His heart flutters, growing louder as she fixed her gaze on him. He felt like…. he felt like he could look at her forever. That horizon, the golden sun, the red clouds. And he was afraid. Afraid to move forwards from this point, as though it would be better to just be frozen to stone under her watchful eyes.

But. She was lifting the cup.

He lifted hers.

Nine sips. Nine sips is what it takes. 

—

She undresses.

Hundreds of layers of silk peel back, and underneath - there’s her. She’s unchanged from the night before, but her skin is flushed and her breathing tightens and he has to check that it’s… it’s not a sign of something else, first.

And she touches him.

And she embraces him.

And she kisses him.

Over, and over, and over, and over.

And he’s kissing her, every line, every mark, every scar. Every story, every bone, every breath. Everything. Everything. She’s every single thing. And.

Holding her is like holding the universe.

She’s breathing against him, hard, and she’s whining, and she’s making noises he’s never heard before and it’s like they’ve melted and the lines between what she is and what he is don’t make sense anymore - they’re inside one another and it doesn’t make sense anymore. She laughs and it’s him laughing, she gasps and it’s him gasping, she tightens and it’s him tightening - and then, their fingers knotted in their hair, their chest heaving against their chest, their back arching one against the earth and the other against the sky, then and all at once it’s. 

Ecstasy.

And it’s over.

—

She plays her fingers over his arm, humming.

“Oiran were really not that romantic, you know. We have no accounts from their point of view. The reality would have been so much harsher, don’t you think?”

He rolled his hand into hers, squeezing it.

“Many Tayū debuted at 13, and it wasn’t like they had protection against any diseases,” he sighed. “No doubt many died after a tragically young life.”

“Mmm hmm…. And those that didn’t would have to look for husbands. Who wants an educated woman? All that once made them sensual now makes them unmarketable,” she lifted her free arm, bringing it around the back of his neck, drawing her head into his shoulder.

“Ah, and that’s the origin of Shinjū, yes?”

“Oh, you know about this already?” She lightly scratched at his neck. “You’ve been studying, I see.”

“If you want to talk about it…”

She dug her nails in a little deeper, laughing. “Fine. Yes. Shinjū - prostitutes would try to convince their would be lovers that they were committed to them and them alone. It was considered a great erotic art to send a man a piece of her fingernail. Some went so far as to cut off their pinky finger. Others, driven to such grief through rejection, would kill themselves.”

He let that pause hang in the air, before she added.

“So…. what would you offer me, hm?” 

He tilted his head onto hers, gazing down into her inquisitive eyes. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that of you?”

“Yes… But you answer first.”

“My eyes,” he said, “Anything. You can have anything but my eyes.”

She laughed in surprise, “A quick answer!” She leaned upwards, kissing him gently on his eyelids. In response, he blinked rapidly, looking at her expectantly.

“Well?”

She hummed. “My body is pretty worthless, so…” Leaning back into the futon, she drummed her fingers on her mouth, before finally answering, “You can have  _ my  _ eyes. I don’t mind. I’ll gouge them from their sockets.”

She rolled over, looking up at him. 

“I don’t really need them.”

—

“God, you look just like me…” They were looking into a mirror, he brushing one side of her hair while she tackled the other. “Have you ever thought about that?”

She turned towards him, playing with his fringe. He reached up, helping her tuck it into place, parting it to the left.  “You should grow it a little longer…” she added, “That will really terrify them, hmm?”

He paused, touching his mouth. “I’ll need lipstick, too.”

Gazing into the mirror, she grinned.

“Yes. Good idea, Korekiyo.”

—

He put on what was once her lipstick. There wasn’t much left in the tube. But it was the colour he knew she liked. It was the colour he knew she would want.

And when he put it on, he closed his eyes and imagined the wet sensation against his lips was her kissing him.  

And when she finished putting it on, she opened her eyes and imagined the soft tingle against her lips was him kissing her.

—

He played the Oiran, and she sang him stories.

He lay in the hospital bed, and she laughed as she pretended to slip morphine into his mouth.

He wore her underwear, wore her clothes, wore her makeup - and she dressed in his uniform. She couldn’t stop touching him.

“Narcissist.” 

—

He still wore her clothes. Her underwear felt so natural against his skin - well, her skin, now. He doesn’t feel comfortable without her brazier, as though going without was suddenly a great act of indecency. He begins to lose all meaning of himself, and then suddenly there is no himself. There is only them. He exists in his uniform, and she in this flesh.

He unwinds one bandaged arm, her fingers stretching and tightening with the sudden sensation of being freed. He reaches for her hand, greedily taking it, greedily feeding off of her warmth. Her fingers flex, then soften, then stroke his hand.

He stops trembling.

— 

After they had taken nine sips, it felt like she would never stop embracing him. It was like they craved it from each other constantly - that warmth, that soft, soft warmth of each other. One hand on his waist, one on the back of his neck. He memorised it, it was impossible not to. 

“Do not let your heart be disturbed. Resist, do not falter. Do not get distracted. Do not tremble.” 

She touched his face, and no matter how lifeless she looked, she held him with such _ strength _ .  

“Korekiyo, sometimes we need to be brave.” 

—

He hugged himself.

She hugged him.

No matter… how lifeless he felt… she would always hold him with such  _ strength. _

“Korekiyo, sometimes we need to be brave.” 

— 

Her thighs brushed the sides of his face, her back arching into him. His thighs brushed the sides of her face, his back arching into her.  

Every single brush of his tongue was met with her own, that centre of pleasure burning from the simplest of her mouth’s movements. And he knew, he knew she felt the same - he tilted his head, drew his lips closer, felt her thighs trembling against him just as she made his own quake.

Their identical hair spread out around them, thick and black and long woven like a Celtic circle around their bodies. Compressed, out of view, squeezing his eyes shut and he imagined them like the yin and the yang, the black and the white, the two halves to that one, hungry whole. Ouroboros.

And there was nothing but her, nothing nothing nothing but her pleasure - her wonderful, gentle sounds that hummed with his own. That pleasure shooting forth from himself, shooting forth from her, curving round them all at once, the same sensation. The same sensation. As though, as though, he trembled, as though in this moment they were one and inescapably the same.

All the world fell apart. All the stories. All the lines that connected everything together.

The walls folded in. The futon melted into the primordial sea. The ‘you’ and the ‘I’ no longer was.

There was only this, there was only this, this pleasurable hum.

Them.

—

Them.

They’re them.

Everything he feels, she feels. Everything she feels, he feels. A roar in the back of his mind, a swelling that’s impossible to ignore. She gasps as he unwraps her binding - the sensation of cold suddenly remembered.

Her fingers flex, taste the air - and then crawl up his uniform. She takes her time, though he senses her impatience, gently her flat palm across his chest. Her heart’s aching. Pausing over his own, listening to their shared, rhythmic pulse.

He takes his own hand, still bandaged, and slowly undid the buttons of his jacket. She only lightly protests, keeping one half firmly plastered to his skin. She wants to feel him, she reassures, running her fingers in a circle over his pocket, nails catching in the chain.

But he wants to feel her, so she allows it. Her skin prickles as the air gasps along it, her breast straining against the thin material of her brazier. She encourages him, reaching up to his face, brushing his cheek - fingers softly drumming over his eyes. Touch me. She begs, touch me, please, please. It’s been so long, please, please ple-

Her fingers spasm, his hand slipped under the material, brushing her nipple in soft semi-circles. She gasps and he gasps, audible, the sensation of her pleasure his own and everything starts to lose its sense again.

She ran her finger along his mouth, playing with each and every little metal groove. What sharp teeth you have, she laughs - his own rasping out in a soft ‘kukuku’. Then she grabbed the zip, and in one swift movement - undid it and slipped her fingers inside their mouth. 

He gasped, she laughed - his back arching. The sensation of her, the taste of her fingers - they’re so long and so soft and so so so uniquely _ hers _ . His hand gets greedy, shooting down towards his belt - but then her fingers are stolen away from his mouth and she’s holding onto his hand instead. There’s a groan of shared frustration, but he can hear her hiss  _ don't be so gluttonous. _

She runs her fingers over his hand, gently. She could take it over, if she wants to - undo all those bandages and leave him helpless. But she’s kind. She let’s him have a second chance - those fingers crawling back up his chest.

Back up his neck.

Back up to his mask.

Kiss me.

Her fingers run over the shape of his lips, over the zip, pressing the metal against him in a cold kiss. Touch me, she begs, and he runs his fingers over her stomach, back over her breast, up to her collar bone. No more awful scars, no pot marks, no breathlessness. She’s healthy now. Complete.

“Sister…” he whispers, that awful ache roaring in his chest. He’s sweating, he’s a mess, but this is so, so, so, so, so right. There’s nothing like this, there’s nothing like her brushing him while he brushes her, that shared sensation, that, that…!

And then she rips the mask off.

She breathes, gasps, eyes fluttering as the world seeps into view.

“Korekiyo,” she hisses. “Calm down. Don’t you want to savour this?”

He nods, fingers pinching her skin.

“How long has it been…?” She sighs, running her fingers over his face, over his eyes. Touching the only part of him that could be exposed.

He pulls his mask up, briefly gasping, “Much too long…” before her hand sweeps down, pulling herself free.

“Then relax. You must not be so hasty.”

He swallows, and she rewards him by drawing her fingers down over his neck, gently rubbing the back of it.

“Relax,” she repeats.

His fingers go still.

She rolls her hand up through their hair, brushing it in a familiar, comforting way. He closes his eyes, almost starting to drift as she hums. He can remember… when they did this for hours. Hours and hours and hours. Until time didn’t matter. Her fingers over their scalp, their head tilting into their touch. His hand went to his waist, and they embraced. Warm. It almost feels warm.

Then, she let her hands drift - away from his hair, across his shoulder. Down over his chest. Down to his thigh.

“Just relax,” she reassures.

But what about you?

She stiffens, a laugh pouring out of her as he reaches up to touch the side of her face, brush the edge of her lips.

“… Fine. I suppose you’ve calmed yourself enough.”

His eyes widen as he watches his hand undo his belt, watches it slip under the material, across her thigh. Her brows arch, the sensation intensifies, doubles itself, her own hand working his thigh - the world’s spinning, the lines between them unblurring.

She’s.

He’s.

They’re…

He writhes. She gasps, fingers suddenly latching into the bed. He’s kissing her, fingers softly dancing along her thigh - thin, gentle, pointed kisses that make her toes curl and his legs tremble. Slowly, her fingers return to his thigh, and she’s kissing him. Her mouth relaxes, her head tilting, fingers and lips and thighs and body parts losing all sense of meaning. As though their skin could melt apart - the feeling more intense as he brushed her sex, and she brushed his sex, as they disappeared into each other’s mouths.

She wanted to call his name, but there were no names, not anymore. Her hips bucked, but then she forgot what the shape of her body was, as though she was formless - spilling out across the room in a hazy plane of this this this.

She was inside him. He was inside her. She was him. He was her. She was. He was. She. He.

He could feel her lips, and they were his lips, and they were hers - he was kissing her and being kissed by her and was her kissing. Their face came apart and doubled, their body was here and there, their self in everything but all they knew was.

That hum, that simple, long, hum of pleasure.

Ecstasy.

And then it’s over.

—

He came into his hand and it’s lukewarm. 

And though it comes as a relief, he can’t say, he can’t honestly say - lying in the dark, the whole world dreadful and terrifying outside, that he feels much of anything.

He touched his forehead, his hair a raggedy mess, his breathing slowing.

This is it.

This is all there is. 

An endless darkness. Shapeless. Silent. Surreal.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Sister in the Japanese says '是清や、時には潔さも必要。' which loosely translates, as far as I'm aware, to 'Korekiyo, sometimes we must be brave.' (It implies taking responsibility.) In the official English, it's translated as 'Korekiyo, sometimes we must admit defeat.' 
> 
> I like using the 'brave' option because it lends itself to more angst. Anyway, I figured someone might wonder where that line was coming from, so now you know my thought process. Hehe. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading through all that! Feedback is always dearly appreciated.


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